pity this busy monster
e.e. cummings

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
— electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born — pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if — listen: there’s a hell
of a good universe next door; let’s go

Advertisements

The Flower
Robert Creeley

I think I grow tensions
like flowers
in a wood where
nobody goes.

Each wound is perfect,
encloses itself in a tiny
imperceptible blossom,
making pain.

Pain is a flower like that one,
like this one,
like that one,
like this one.

untitled?

i know, i’m a horrible person for leaving you guys alone for so long. sorry. anyways, i wrote a poem, but it needs revision and a title, so feedback would be greatly appreciated.

untitled (for now)
an original from girlsnakey

i am a spare piece
that extra part you place in a box
(“just in case,” you think)
and inevitably forget about
so there i stay
gathering dust
alone

from my box i see the others
the ones with a place-
a purpose-
they are not alone
they are connected
gears in the human machine
together

and sometimes i wonder
are there more like me?
do they sit in their boxes
tired and dusty
never belonging
watching
alone?